


My Spirit Be with You

by HaadogeiPipe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Coma, Ghosts, HP: EWE, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Romance, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 15:36:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10924824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaadogeiPipe/pseuds/HaadogeiPipe
Summary: Over six years have passed since the war ended, and young Auror Harry Potter is leading a rather dull life, mostly keeping to himself and battling his inner demons and a severe case of PTSD. At night, he is plagued by guilt over the people that lost their lives for him and lies awake berating himself for things he should have done differently. One night, he feels a strange presence and hears the echo of a voice taunting him. Is he going insane, or is there really someone in his house?





	My Spirit Be with You

 

 

Silence—such a hard-to-come-by commodity these days, yet it happened to be the one thing he craved above all other. Such a nuisance …

   Pacing the cold, uncarpeted floors of the four-bedroom house with only pale, milky moonlight to guide his step, Harry Potter fought the impulse to flinch every time the old grandfather clock ticked away the time. One would think that night time would be soundless, empty, tranquil—but it was never that easy.

   The seemingly asleep world was teeming with active wildlife; hares sprinting across the meadow beyond the glassed-in patio, a stray deer grazing along the treeline, moths and mosquitos buzzing around the garden lights … The wind was picking up, making the leaves rustle in the trees. Now and then the occasional hoot of an owl would reach him, making his heart contract painfully at his remembered loss.

   Inside the house, clocks were ticking, ventilation and heating systems were humming, and the wood was setting with audible _crack_ s and _pop_ s.

   Six years.

   It had been six years, four months, twenty-two days, twenty hours, and thirty-five minutes since Voldemort fell down, dead and defeated, in the Hogwarts grounds and the war finally ended. Almost six and a half years, but it still seemed like yesterday that he walked among the bodies strewn around the devastated castle.

   Funny how he could still pinpoint the exact time and date of that final, brutal battle and in detail replay everything that had happened with frightening accuracy but could not even remember his own wedding. The ear-splitting explosions of spells and the screaming still haunted him, as if enormous blocks of stone were falling around him right this minute and panicked, wounded people were running through his home.

   A dry, bitter chuckle escaped him.

   Strange word, that—‘home.’ This house had not been home to him in over a year, maybe even longer than that. Maybe it had never been home, not even when his wife had still been living there and they had been happy. Or had they really been happy there? Thinking back, Harry was fairly certain that they had been fooling themselves, both so eager to believe in a bright and blissful future that they had disregarded all the signs that now seemed so obvious.

   _I’m not meant to be with anyone. There is nothing left in me to share; it was all expired in that battle._

   Even if the night had been completely void of sound, Harry would have been cheated out of the silence he so desperately craved; his head was never silent. Every day, every waking moment and restless sliver of sleep, he could hear all the memorised noises from that morning down to Voldemort’s last breath. But no matter how hard he tried to roust the memory, he could not recall the vows that had been made, or the ‘I do’s, the band that had been playing, the laughter …

   Had there been laughter? There must have been laughter, right? Weddings were supposed to be joyous occasions.

   Almost unconsciously, his right hand went to the ring that still adorned his left ring finger. Looking out over the gravel road that led up to the house, he absentmindedly twirled the ring around his finger, feeling the gold heat up under his touch.

   If only he had been able to transfer that heat to the real thing … Maybe then things would have ended up differently. Maybe they could have found peace and been able to move on from their violent past—together.

   _At least she can move on now that I’m not pulling her down anymore_ , he thought darkly, suspiciously scanning the seemingly empty night outside the large windows.

   In the parlour, the grandfather clock struck once, marking the half hour.

   It had been years since Harry had been able to sleep through the night; he would always wake up from a nightmare, sweaty and shaking and gasping for breath, his chest ready to burst open. After that, he could not find the calm that he needed to go back to sleep, but would wander around, checking all the locks and surveying the landscape to make sure that they were safe. That no-one was lurking out there in the darkness, waiting for their time to strike.

   This night was no different, and he was so used to his insomnia by now that he felt wide awake despite it being 2:30 in the morning.

   As so many times before, he clenched his fist at his side. With no effort at all, he could feel the hard wood of his wand in his hand, and he automatically raised his arm as if to fight back a volley of curses. He could instantaneously recall the weight of Godric Gryffindor’s sword, as well, and the stony sensation of the dead Basilisk’s fang—but he could not remember the feeling of his wife’s soft, wild hair.

   He was sure that he used to love her hair, once.

   And her smell … what had she smelled like? Had she not had this very particular scent because of that odd homemade herbal body wash that she persisted in using? What had it been made of again?

   The acrid stink of burnt flesh suddenly assaulted his nostrils and he gagged violently. Light-headed and weak-kneed, he stumbled off towards the loo and barely reached it before his stomach began to dry-heave. Since he hardly ate anymore there was nothing to purge, but his body was adamantly trying in any case.

   Once the retching had passed, Harry got up on shaky legs and splashed cold water from the sink on his face. Reluctantly, he met his own gaunt gaze in the mirror, jaw clenching at the sight of his pasty, haggard countenance and the dark rings under his eyes.

   His wife used to tell him that he had the deepest and most fascinating eyes—like a well from which you could pull the most wonderful secrets and miracles if you just had the tenacity to keep working at the rope. In the beginning, they would sit across from each other on the floor and just look each other in the eye until their legs went completely numb.

   Then the light went out of them and the hatch was tightly sealed over the well.

   He felt a small stab of guilt at the memory and had to break eye contact with his mirror image.

   _I shouldn’t think about that_ , he berated himself for the umpteenth time. _There is nothing I can do to change it, anyway. We drifted apart, and I let it happen._

   Letting out a deep sigh, he was just about to straighten up and leave the dark loo when a movement in the mirror caught his attention.

   A cold hand seemed to squeeze around his heart and make it speed up his pulse.

   Harry’s mirror image had not moved in years, probably as sick of his incurable PTSD and self-loathing as everyone else in his life was, so that could not have been the cause of the motion. Frowning, he squinted at the reflective glass, but everything was still.

   Any normal person would have relaxed and laughed at their jumpiness, but Harry instead pulled his wand out of his trouser pocket and adopted a defensive stance. All senses on high alert, he slowly moved out of the bathroom with his wand held out in front of him. He quickly looked up and down the short hallway to make sure that no-one was lying in wait for him.

   When no curse came flying his way, he went right to the kitchen since the movement seemed to have come from that doorway. Making use of his Auror training, he stopped before reaching the threshold and stood with his back pressed to the wall, listening to the faux silence.

   The wall clock’s low ticking and the hum of the old fridge-and-freezer set were the only sounds reaching him, but that did not necessarily mean that nobody was in there. They could be waiting for him to make the first move, leave himself vulnerable as he appeared in the open doorway. Despite that, he had to go in there and make sure the room was clear.

   Drawing a quiet breath to steal himself, he swiftly crossed the threshold and crouched behind the nearest kitchen chair to make use of the meagre cover it provided. Still nothing moved; no spell was cast. Everything was calm.

   Raising his eyebrows slightly in surprise, Harry rose from the floor, turning his head left and right to take in the entire kitchen. Nothing.

   Had he imagined it?

   Finally able to let his tensed muscles relax somewhat, Harry lowered his wand to his side. It was not the first time his mind had fabricated an intruder. In fact, his constant vigilance and tendency to conjure up non-existent home invaders had been one of the main reasons for the separation over a year ago.

   The grandfather clock chimed three times, its tinny ringing sounding ominous to Harry’s ears. Foreboding.

   Shrugging his shoulders, he muttered, “You really need to loosen up, Potter.”

   Reassured by his own voice, he made to put the wand back in his pocket.

   Something moved in his left periphery, making him turn hard on the spot. Wand once more held out at the ready, he caught a fleeting glimpse of something dark fluttering around the doorway that led to the parlour. Even though it was gone in less than a second, there was no mistaking that it had been the tail of someone’s robes.

   Cursing under his breath, Harry hurried off after the intruder, prepared to find an ex-Death Eater running across the parquet floor—

   —but the room was empty.

   Stopping inside the door, Harry frowned in confusion. He had been right on the trespasser’s tail; there was no way he or she could have found a hiding spot in a mere second or two. So how could they just have vanished?

   _Invisibility Cloak?_ his mind suggested, but he dismissed that thought as quickly as it had been formed. The likelihood of this person possessing one of the extremely rare Cloaks was so small it was almost ridiculous to even consider the possibility. Besides, they had only had a fraction of a second to cover themselves in it without causing a single ripple of fabric that would betray their position in the room.

   So then, how … ?

   Boggled, Harry just stood there for a minute. Then he decided that it would be best for him to search the house and ascertain that he was alone; check so all the wards were still intact.

   An hour later, he fell onto his bed, feeling exhausted in a way that he had not felt since the last big raid three months prior. All he wanted was to drift away on a wave of carefree, dreamless sleep, but he was too tired to bother with the duvet. He did not mind the cold, anyway.

   He must have fallen asleep, because he was started awake by someone snapping their finger against the tip of his nose. Half crying out at the sudden, sharp pain, Harry shot up into a sitting position and looked wildly around him. He could have sworn that he heard a snicker, but there was no-one in the room with him.

   More bewildered than alarmed, he called out, “Ron?” He had no idea why Ron would decide to travel out to his rural house northeast of London just to play a prank on him, especially not after their short and disastrous partnership at work, but everybody else he knew were even less likely to pull such a stunt.

   The first grey rays of daylight were seeping in through fog and curtain alike, enabling him to see that he was alone. Unless they were hiding in the wardrobe, but there was no way anyone could sneak in there without setting off the characteristic squeak of its doors.

   Yet, Harry slid off the bed and went up to the wardrobe. Opening the double doors with one swift motion, he caused a tortured wail of protest that made him wince.

   The noise teased a long-forgotten memory to the surface:

   _Why don’t we get rid of this thing already? It’s not like we can’t afford a new one …_

_I will close my eyes for a second and pretend you didn’t say that. Why would we ever want to exchange this beauty for a cold and impersonal new one?_

_Erm, because it sounds as if an animal is being tortured in there every time you open it?_

She had laughed at him and put her arms around him, snuggling into his chest. _It has character. Even furniture need their own personalities and deserve our love and care._

   The wardrobe held nothing but the usual mess of clothing haphazardly thrown in there, but her half of it still gaped empty—as if it was mocking him. He simply had not had the heart to invade her space, even though she did not need it anymore. It was hers and it should be left untouched.

   Untouched by his poisonous bitterness and melancholy.

   A snort-like chuckle came from the doorway and he immediately spun around, shutting the wardrobe with a loud _bang_. He was just about to pull his wand out of his pocket—but was met by a deserted hallway.

   His hand fell to his side again as he frowned in bewilderment. What was going on here? Why was he hearing disembodied laughter all of a sudden? Recollections of the war used to sneak up on him unbidden, but they always came with visuals, too. And 99% of the time where laughter was involved, it was either Voldemort’s or Bellatrix Lestrange’s that echoed through his mind. This was different; it clearly came from an external source, not from within him, and it did not belong to either of those deranged sociopaths.

   But there was something familiar about it …

   With no prospects of going back to sleep, Harry shuffled downstairs to the kitchen, where he opened the fridge and stared blankly at its contents until he decided he did not want anything and proceeded to pace through the house instead. Although he knew that it was not healthy, that was practically all he could do nowadays.

   “ _Potter …_ ”

   Stiffening, Harry came to an abrupt stop by the bookcases in the parlour, his hand hovering over an old photograph of him, Ron, and Hermione in fourth year. Looking around the cold, uninviting room, he called out, “Who’s there?”

   Only silence met him.

   A shiver ran down his spine and an ice-cold feeling of dread—of being just outside of evil’s grasp, on the brink of being devoured whole—filled him. Something was utterly wrong, and as long as he had no idea _what_ he was helpless before it; exposed.

   Wand once again in hand, he made a 360 degree turn to take in the entire room. “Who’s there?” he repeated, firmer and more authoritatively this time.

   At first, there was no response, but then something stirred next to him, as if the air itself quivered, like the ripples on the surface of a lake. It was not quite a voice, not quite a touch … it was more of a spiritual experience like that of a dream that briefly continued on into the waking moment. He could not claim that anyone had actually said the words to him—he just _knew_ the intent of the presence, as if the notion had been born inside his own mind—yet he clearly heard:

   “ _As if you could ever command anyone._ ”

   Goosebumps popping up on every inch of his skin and hairs raised, Harry listened to his body’s powerful instinct to flee and stumbled out of the room. He continued down the hall to the front door and fumblingly struggled with the multiple locks and bolts before finally managing to spring it open.

   Once outside, he leaned forward with his hands on his lower thighs, panting. His heart was beating faster than it had in years, seemingly fighting to break out of his chest. He felt lightheaded, on the verge of fainting.

   Apprehensively, he looked back in at the gloomy hallway.

   What the Hell had happened in there?!

   Inside the house, the grandfather clock chimed seven times. Beckoning him to re-enter his doomed home.

   _Doomed … because of me_ , he thought and remembered all too well how painful it had been when he realised that his wife was leaving him. “Separating,” she had called it, but he had known instantaneously what it meant: breaking free of her shackles to pursue a life that did not have him in it. The fact that she had not yet served him the divorce papers did not mean shit.

   Giving a huge sigh of resignation, he relaxed his shoulders in a droop of defeat. There was nothing to gain from being bitter, for this was not her fault; he had no-one to blame but himself, and if she one day _did_ ask for a divorce … He certainly had it coming.

   _Pop!_

   Suddenly, Ron Weasley appeared before him and made him jump. The ginger had his back to him and appeared to be peering into the house. “Hullo? Harry?” he called with a note of uncertainty in his voice.

   Right. 7 am. His ‘carpool’ had arrived.

   “I’m here, Ron,” he said when the mate was just about to step into the still ominous-looking hallway.

   Now it was Ron’s turn to jump. Then he spun around on his heel so quickly it made Harry dizzy just by watching him. “Bloody Hell, Harry! You could have scared me to death there!” he half shrieked, half hissed accusatorily. “What are you doing out here?” And with a look back at the house, he added: “And why’s your door open?”

   Harry opened his mouth to reply but shut it almost immediately again. He had no idea what he should say, how he would ever be able to explain what he had experienced these past five hours. His friends were way too worried about him already without him adding to it by telling them about invisible invaders and voices in his head …

   Instead, he tried for a reassuring smile. “Just getting some fresh air,” he lied. Not as smoothly as he would have liked, but that was the best that he could do at the moment.

   Ron frowned, obviously not buying it. “Without your shoes?” he inquired sceptically.

   Well, it had been worth a try. “I think there’s something in my house,” he said, not even liking the way that sounded himself. “Possibly a Boggart,” he added as an afterthought in the hopes of not alarming Ron too much.

   The frown partly changed into an incredulously raised eyebrow. “A Boggart?” He turned back towards the house to gaze into its dark depths again. “D’you need me to have a look, mate?”

   “No,” Harry instantly said, “I’ll deal with it when I get back home.”

   Ron visibly exhaled with relief as he faced Harry anew. “Good, ‘cause I’m in no mood to confront a giant spider right after breakfast. Now, what d’you say we head in to work—eh?”

   He stretched out his arm and indicated that Harry should hook his around it.

   Shaking his head, he said, “No, thanks, I think I can Apparate just fine on my own; I don’t need to side-along.”

   The ginger flushed scarlet, which clashed horribly with his hair. “Sorry, mate, orders from the missus,” he mumbled, clearly embarrassed. Harry guessed it could not be easy for someone like Ron to be bossed around by a woman.

   Shrugging, he muttered, “Figures Hermione doesn’t trust me not to splinch myself,” and reluctantly grabbed his friend’s arm.

   A powerful pull on his navel and a sickening spinning later, they were standing in the Apparition Arrival Hall in the Ministry, hidden deep below the streets of London. Not surprisingly, Hermione was already there waiting for them, and Harry noticed that there was a worried wrinkle between her eyebrows and a concerned twist to her mouth. He knew that should sting—that he was causing her worries—but as usual he could not make himself feel anything.

   “Hi, Harry,” Hermione said as she approached him with arms open, forcing him to accept an embrace that he did not really want. “How are you feeling? Are you sleeping okay, eating well?”

   Harry squirmed out of her immediate grabbing radius. “Hermione, you saw me yesterday,” he objected irritably.

   She frowned in confusion. “Yes, but what does that have to—”

   “You ask me the same questions every day,” he interrupted, “and frankly, it’s getting rather old.”

   He could see the glistening of threatening tears in her brown eyes, but he still could not bring himself to feel anything but resignation and emptiness. “I ask because I worry about you,” she informed him for the umpteenth time, straightening her back in a very dignified manner. “You look awful; you have dark rings under your eyes, your hair looks as though it hasn’t been washed for weeks, and you are as thin as a rail.”

   “Yeah, so?”

   “Harry, you need to take better care of yourself! I get that it’s been hard for you—we all do—but this has to end. The war has been hard on us all—”

   Rounding on her with the speed of a striking snake, Harry bit off, “You don’t get to talk about it like you understand; you don’t. You _can’t_. Nobody can.”

   And with those words, Harry stormed off to the nearest elevator alcove and went directly to his office on Level 2, shutting himself in with a slam of the door. Breathing heavily as if he had just run a marathon, he closed his eyes and let relief over finally being alone again flood him.

   “Morning, Harry,” Neville Longbottom said cheerily, and jerked him back to reality.

   His spirits instantly dropped as he was reminded that he shared an office with his partner. Young Aurors trying to prove themselves did not get their own office.

   “Morning,” he muttered, and shuffled over to his desk, slouching down into his chair. He pinched his nose in an attempt to force his emerging headache to recede.

   “You a’right?”

   He nodded. “A little sleep deprived, ‘s all.” Sitting up straighter, he began to examine the pile of pale-violet interdepartmental memos that were awaiting his assessment and response. Clearly there were words on them—loads, actually—but he could not make out a single one of them. The black ink symbols blurred and merged as if the paper was soaking wet.

   Scowling at the illegible documents, he wondered if it was possible to contract dyslexia overnight, like a head cold.

   “Are you sure? You don’t look very good …”

   Merlin, he was sick of people always asking him if he was all right.

   _No, I’m the reason more than 50 good people died six and a half years ago and here I am, breathing as easily as ever, so yeah—I feel absolutely peachy._

   “I’m fine,” he snapped instead.

   Neville stood awkwardly at the right-hand side of his desk for a few long, uncomfortable moments. Then he said, “Lots of paperwork today, eh?” Probably to change the subject, because he was twisting his hands nervously and looking everywhere but at Harry.

   Knowing that he should be remorseful for how harsh he had just been with Neville, Harry allowed for his guard to lower minutely and said, “Yeah, but that’s never got the best of us before.” He was actually somewhat relieved when the mate perked up a bit at the indirect praise. “Mind walking me through what’s on the agenda today? Reading on two or three hours’ sleep isn’t working out for me, I’m afraid.”

   Smiling brightly just like old times, Neville nodded eagerly. “Sure. No problem, Harry.”

   If only he could have some of Neville’s resilience and belief in happy endings …

   Alas, he was stuck with his own insufferable bitter self.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The day progressed without much of a hiccup—until he came face to face with Hermione. Upon seeing him, her eyes watered and she turned on her heel faster than a Snitch could flutter out of a Seeker’s too-confident grasp. She disappeared down the corridor before Harry got a chance to apologise for earlier. Because, surely, that was what was expected of him—right?

   Unfortunately, he did not have the energy to go after her, so he simply continued on with work. It was the only thing that kept him from coming apart altogether; his one salvation, however meagre it was. If he had not had this job …

   “Mate, what is wrong with you?!” Ron’s voice suddenly broke through his dark musings, and it was not too happy with him. His cheeks were flushed in indignation and his blue eyes bored mercilessly into Harry’s. He was just about to ask what he had done this time when the ginger continued: “She’s devastated! And you can’t even dig up the balls to say ‘sorry?!’”

   Ah. He was talking about Hermione; of course. What else?

   Shifting his legs uncomfortably, Harry scratched his unshaven chin. “I was going to, but then she ran away,” he defended himself with, but even he could hear how half-hearted his excuse was.

   Ron raised his flaming eyebrows in incredulity. “What, are you both daft and amputated now? Just go after her! She feels awful, you know!” he shouted, giving his considerably shorter mate a hard push to help him along.

   “Oh, yeah?” Harry pushed back, feeling his blood starting to boil. “So do I!”

   “Don’t you bloody make this about _you_ now! It’s always about you nowadays, isn’t it? Well, guess what—your friends are worried about you and you’re just being a giant dick in return!”

   Feeling a sting of hurt, Harry pressed his lips into a thin, harsh line. Protective walls going up around him again, he closed himself off to his oldest mate. “Really, Ron, if that is how you guys see me, then why are you still friends with me?” he wondered in a tone so low he could not be sure if Ron even heard him. Not waiting around for a reaction, though, he hurried off towards the loo before his chest could burst open and leave him bleeding to death in front of all the people that had stopped to stare at them.

   Falling to his knees in front of the toilet bowl, he succumbed to violent retching that seemed to be ripping his abdominal muscles apart. His entire body convulsed in an attempt to rid him of something that did not exist; since he had not eaten in a day or two the only thing left to spew out was rancid, caustic stomach acid.

   He desperately clutched the toilet seat with both hands as cold sweat poured down his face and back. Finally, he sank down on the tile floor, too weak to get up. All he could do was lie there for an unknown amount of time, shaking and hyperventilating.

   He was losing it. He was losing the minuscule, fragile control he had still been in possession of—and he hated it.

   _Get a grip!_ he told himself as forcefully as he could. _No-one can see you like this, no-one can know what a pathetic little coward you have become! Come on, get up—get up, get up,_ get up _!_

   It took all the strength he had left, but he managed to rise onto unsteady feet and somehow remain standing. Never in his life prior to the war had he imagined that something as simple as standing up could be such a feat.

   A few minutes later, he was back in his office. He kept working as if nothing had happened—ran every errand his superiors asked of him, wrote all the reports that was lagging behind, sent off more paper planes than he received, and ignored the exhaustion that was always threatening to pull the carpet out from under him. Nobody seemed to notice how close he was to the brink of utter destruction, and that was exactly how he wanted it.

   He could not lose this job. He simply could not.

   Back home at 8 pm, he went straight to the couch in the parlour and stretched out with his left arm over his eyes. Yet another day managed. _Brava_ , he thought sarcastically to himself.

   All he wanted was to sleep—if only for a little while—but a creeping, crawling sense of dread was preventing him from slipping into the rest he so desperately needed. Friday. It was Friday, which meant that two days of no work would follow. And when he could not go to work, he started to climb the walls and fall a little bit further down into insanity.

   And with that Boggart in the house …

   He sat up straight on the couch. The Boggart! He had almost forgotten all about it. Now he suspiciously scanned the room, wondering where the vile creature might be hiding. There were too many closed spaces, too many possibilities for a being practically made of smoke to conceal itself  … Harry could not just let it invade his home like that, so he got up again and began a thorough search of the premises, once again ignoring the loud protests of his dangerously tired body.

   No matter how long and hard he searched, how many times he examined all the nooks and crannies of the house, Harry still could not find any Boggart and was left completely perplexed. How was it possible? A Boggart was the only plausible explanation for what had transpired in that house for the past eighteen hours …

   “ _Losing it, Potter?_ ”

   The voice seemed to come from inside of him, as if his subconscious was engaging him in some good old self-mockery. But no, it could not be—it could not be coming from within himself! Because that would mean that he truly was going insane.

   “ _That face is priceless, Potter. Do go on—I shall enjoy every second of it._ ”

   Harry frowned. Now the voice seemed to be moving around him, circulating him until it came to a stop by an old armchair that he used to sit in at night, reading. That was before he lost the ability to sit still in peace.

   _And then the springs in the armchair creaked!_

   Hackles rising, Harry shot over to the chair and stretched out his arms in front of him, expecting to find a man made invisible by a Cloak like the one lying stowed away in a trunk in his own bedroom. Empty air met his fingertips and he lost his balance, finding himself falling face-first into the dusty armchair.

   He coughed violently as he got a noseful of old stuffing.

   An eerily familiar snicker rang out behind him, and he immediately squirmed out of the chair’s unwelcome embrace to face his would-be attacker. Of course, there was no-one there. Getting angry now, Harry yelled: “Show yourself!” But the scornful chuckles only continued, defiantly moving out of the room and into the hallway.

   Harry ran after, looking both left and right in an attempt to locate the strange presence. For what seemed like the longest time, there was no indication whatsoever of where it had gone off to—but then a movement by the kitchen doorway caught his eye. Even though he knew it might be dangerous, he pursued it without a single thought, without a single doubt; he just wanted clarity.

   He just wanted to know that he was not losing his mind.

   Skidding into the kitchen, Harry almost slid into the breakfast table and its matching straight-backed chairs. It distracted him for a second, and he cursed under his breath as he found his footing. Looked up at the counter area—

   —and was shocked at the sight that met him.

   An all-too-familiar silver-blond tall young man was leaning against the counter with his arms defiantly crossed over his chest and a self-assured sneer on his milky-pale face. As if he had been there many times before. As if he owned the place.

   “What’s the matter, Potter? Cat caught your tongue?” the now identified drawling voice of his old arch nemesis asked in self-righteous amusement, apparently pleased with himself for his own cliché remark.

   Harry just stared at him, unable to either move or reply for what seemed like an eternity. And even when the shock finally lifted somewhat, all he could manage was one single word, said in a shaky voice that he hated the moment he heard it. Unfortunately, by then it was already too late.

   Everything was too late.

   “ _Malfoy?!_ ”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! ^^ Status updates for the next chapter will always be available on my profile page under 'Current WIPs.'
> 
> Have an amazing day! =D  
> Lots of Love, Pipe.


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